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Sophie held the girl closer. “We are a real family, my little lamb.”

“Not Uncle. He doesn’t tell me stories.”

Miss Wren rocked the girl. “He feeds us, Abigail. And he keeps a roof above us and clothes on our backs. We should be grateful for that.” She began to hum again.

“He has angry eyes,” the girl said and then yawned. “I don’t like them.”

“Grateful,” she whispered back as she softly rocked the little girl.

His gut clenched. The child had the right idea, but then again, he supposed, Miss Wren did as well. If they were truly orphans, life could be harsh.

The very idea of a woman like herself having to survive, being sent to a workhouse, or needing to sell her body… He revolted at the idea of it, his muscles tightening. It was then he knew. He’d have to do the thing he dreaded more than any other. He’d have to speak with her.

It was odd. He’d stopped talking with anything but his fists years ago. He only spoke to a select few people, and then only when necessary. But the quieter he’d become, the more others seemed to seek him out. He knew the reverse would be true.

Once she learned his secret, she’d shy away from him, no matter what he offered her. He hesitated. He ought to wait and speak with her another time, or only if necessary. Why set himself up for rejection if it could be avoided?

Her singing quieted and became nothing more than a whisper. He looked down to see that the child was asleep. They had privacy, no one was there to witness her rejection, and she was likely to remain on the bench with the child asleep. If he had things to say to her, to ask her, there would be no better time.

The alternative was to have Ironheart do the talking for him. That was the final thought that pushed him forward, out of the shadows and onto the sunlit path.

It was a mild day, and the sun warmed him. His boots, which had been muffled in the grass, crunched on the gravel path.

Her head lifted and her eyes widened as they caught his. “It’s you.”

“Me,” he answered, speaking slowly. Carefully.

“What are you…” Her voice died off as a bit of fear colored her eyes.

He stopped. Had he frightened her at the ball? Of course, he had. He’d not said a word, but instead, had dragged her onto the dance floor. How did he assure her now that he meant no harm? He dropped into a crouch.

Her eyes went from wide to narrow in an instant as she assessed him. “What are you doing here?”

A fair question and the obvious one. Why hadn’t he crafted an answer before stepping out of the shadows? He opened his mouth and closed it again.

“Are you following me? Do you mean me harm?” Her voice trembled at the last words.

He swallowed down a lump. “I-I came to apologize.”

Her brows drew together. “Apologize?”

“I’m Lord M-Maxwell Armstrong.”

“I know,” a ghost of a smile touched her lips. “Dancing with you has caused quite the stir.”

He grimaced. He’d been afraid of that. “B-bad?”

Miss Wren looked up at the sky for a moment and then back at him. “You’re a curious man, my lord.”

His fist clenched as he covered it with his other hand. “Mmh.”

“You drag me on the dance floor without a word, and now I happen to find you outside my home. Why?”

Why? The answer was far too long, he’d never get it out, and he ought not to tell her anyway. “H-h-how l-long—” Damn him and his infernal stutter! He hated the sound of it, grating his ears. His head dropped, not wanting to see the shock, disgust, or judgment that would surely color her features.

“How long what?” she asked, her voice perfectly neutral. He looked up to see an expression of mild curiosity, nothing more, on her face.

“H-have you li-lived with Plimp-Plimpton?”